


INSATIABLE

by winluvr



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Food, Friends With Benefits, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Timeskip, author projects own feelings for sakusa on osamu, kind of, motherlode of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winluvr/pseuds/winluvr
Summary: love as an act of consumption.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, unrequited Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	INSATIABLE

**Author's Note:**

> hi. this was supposed to be a short drabble but it got longer and longer because i wanted to include more scenes. however some scenes were cut out because i needed to rush this. so, i apologize if some details were changed. thanks for giving my fic a chance. :)

_“I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted_ _to know what it was like to get my fill of it – to be fed_ _so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once.”_

— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

  
  


Osamu has only let Atsumu call him stupid without arguing back once in his lifetime. There’s no next time for that.

*

Over the course of a lifetime, Osamu has admired and fallen in love, just a little bit, with so many things, so many people that he couldn’t count them on both of his hands combined.

There was Aran Ojiro, whom he now calls Aran-kun on the rare instance that he sees him around, when he and Atsumu were still in fourth grade and saw him for the first time. _Ah,_ he thought back then, _he’s so cool._ He could have made a fool of himself just for his acknowledgement, just for a wary nod, just for one smile. Up until today, he still couldn’t decide if he wanted to be like him or if he wanted him. Both, maybe, ‘cause there’s just something about him that draws you in.

There was that pair of Mizuno Waves that he told his mama he just _had_ to have, and when she told him he won’t get it until he picks up the slack and work his grades up, he went on all-nighters and lived on black tea to keep himself from falling asleep on his chemistry textbook. (Plan B: he decided to save up his allowance to buy them himself, just in case.) 

Soon enough, he got his Lightning shoes and wore them the next day. Sunarin was the first to notice his new low-cut black shoes with the purple accents on them. He let out a low whistle that day. (“New shoes, huh. Wish I could get a new pair ‘cause mine are lookin’ beat up from prac already.”)

Then there was Kita-san, all brown eyes that seem golden in the sun and short-cropped gray-black hair and warm hands. Osamu knows his eyes are golden because he has always spent his time waiting for him to look at him, just once, just a second longer. He knows his hands are warm because they brushed fingers once and Osamu didn’t know how to feel that day, didn’t know what to do with his beating heart. He knows there was something akin to love he felt that day.

Then there was Sunarin, who was always nothing short of familiar. Suna Rintarou, with his feathery windswept bangs and silver yellow eyes and rough calloused hands from his blocks. Familiar, in the way that he feels like he has known him all his life. Familiar, in the sense that he has picked up all of his little habits, memorized his stance and knew too well how to love him. Maybe it comes with being his best friend. Maybe you just can’t help but fall in love a little bit.

Osamu has always known he didn’t exactly have a heart made of gold. He didn’t have that overwhelming passion to take care of someone else, didn’t have enough love in him to love them unconditionally. He falls in love with everyone he crosses paths with on the street, with every little thing that passes by him. He falls in love because it’s just so _easy_ to do. Press his hand against the swell of someone’s cheek and fall in love a moment after. Watch the steady pull of his body toward them. It’s easy, so easy, yet so unpredictable.

The first time he cried over someone because they broke up with him over text and he loved them so much he couldn’t breathe over his sobs that seemed to steal his breath away, Atsumu does not offer him words of comfort. He does not offer him a tissue, does not cook lunch for him. Instead, he laughs at him. Tells him to suck it up. He tells him he looks stupid letting someone break his heart like that. How stupid it is to let someone hold you, then break you the moment after.

Osamu lets Atsumu call him stupid that day. He doesn’t plan on letting him have another opportunity to laugh in his face. 

*

Somewhere between after the Spring High Tournament and the brink of adulthood, Osamu meets Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’s all heavy-lidded black glares and dark hair curling to his ears and lanky body. Arms constructed like they are built for spike receives, his face half hidden behind his mask. The nose clip clings to his face even when he speaks. He would look scary if the way he’s talking with a mask on didn’t muffle his voice, the paper front wobbling with his every word. It was kinda comical to him, really. He couldn’t help but stifle a giggle.

After the second set, Sakusa tells him he seems average for their up-and-coming ace. Osamu smiles at him and tells him he seems good enough for one of the top three aces. Just good enough to show results. This seemed to irritate him more than anything else, so he slams his hand sharp against the ball, leather resounding against the flesh of his palm. It comes flying out of their hands, disrupting the steady flow. He looks back at Osamu and turns up the corner of his lip.

Sakusa was all unreadable face in partial shadow and wrists almost bending completely backward. Broad shoulders and two black spots placed parallel on his forehead. Osamu was not exactly delighted about meeting him that day. He was not exactly enamored with his presence like everyone else he has fallen in love with, but one day he meets him again.

He re-meets him on his way to work. He’s older. Prettier than he remembers. His gloomy face is a lot brighter now than it used to be, back in high school. Even smiles a lot more now, according to his brother. His shoulders are broader and the little skin that peeks out from the corners of his dri-fit shirt show a constellation of moles scattered over his body. He’s even gotten a little taller than he used to be, which seemed near impossible to Osamu who barely grew an inch or two.

After the first few words they said to each other, Sakusa tells him he’s a lot like his brother. It must have been something about having the same face and the same genes thus giving them the same personality, but still different in some ways. _Really_ , Osamu said, _I don’t know what you’re talking about._

Sakusa tells him he’s on the same team with his brother. Osamu laughs. Says he already knows and wishes him the best of luck with dealing with a pain in the ass like Atsumu. Sakusa tells countless anecdotes about the Jackals over the span of a few months and Osamu always stops to listen.

Maybe Osamu fell in love a little that day and so forth. And so what. Sakusa is still a prickly pain in the ass, almost as much as his brother. But really, it stings a little to always hear Atsumu’s name in their conversation, almost like he couldn’t be separated from his own twin as a different entity. Hurts to feel like he still isn’t his own person even when he’s tried so hard to distinguish himself and make a name for himself, instead of sticking to being just one half of the Miya twins.

So he tries to make the little differences count. He parts his fringe to the left, starts dying his hair a dark gray color. After high school, he stops introducing himself as one half of the Miya twins. He tries to make up for the few things he lacks. He starts picking up new hobbies and polishes the ones he’s already tried. He tries to make what he already has enough. He tries to find himself through baking, then cooking, then letting other people taste test them for him. He doesn’t pursue volleyball as a career like Atsumu wanted them to.

Somewhere between after the Spring High Tournament and the brink of adulthood, Osamu stops dying his hair. Stops buying boxes of hair color gels that promise smokey silver hair after just one application. Says, when his mother asks why, that it’s too high-maintenance, that he couldn’t afford buying them every few months. Says that it’s too much of a hassle, now that he just tugs a haphazard black cap over it on the way to work. Barely even brushes his hair nowadays. He lets it fall raven black over the pale skin of his neck now.

They’ve always said something about one of them being a little bit more skilled than the other. Often, Atsumu turns out to be that person, because of something about his hunger to win the game for the team being stronger than his. He has always been more determined, more suited for greatness. And so what. Osamu doesn’t mind being overshadowed by his brother because he knows too well how great he is. He has witnessed firsthand what it is like to be thrown into the eclipse of a monster setter. Sometime after high school, he overcomes the pressure to be better, do better than him.

He has tried too many times to make the little differences, the little spaces between the pavements of their siamese bodies count. Tries to set himself apart. Pitch black against dyed blond hair. Scours his face for even a slant in the other direction, scours his body for hidden freckles. Tries to make it enough. Sure, finding yourself isn’t easy when you have always been perceived to be one half of another person, but it doesn’t have to be easy, he thinks. You just have to do it.

It’s kinda funny, really, how other people who don’t know him well enough have always wondered if he’s ever been jealous of his twin. Osamu simply smiles. There was no need to be envious, no need to set yourself apart too much. He knows he can’t see himself shine in the monster’s shadow, so he tries to find another host to settle his feet on and reside in.

*

Osamu crosses paths again with Sakusa after the MSBY Black Jackals’ joint practice match with some other team from Osaka or something. He doesn’t bother remembering the specifics. All he knows is that they won, and that’s all that matters in the end anyway. Results win over statistics.

“Wow, what are the odds that I’d see ya again this time.”

Victory is settling harder on Sakusa this time, flesh and bone stretched out over mahogany wood. He all but passes out on the table the moment Osamu lets him in and offers to fix him something up for dinner. It took a little bit of coaxing (“Come on, I’ll cook something for you before you go home. Don’t pass the opportunity up ‘cause I don’t cook for free.”) but he enters the shop in the end anyway. (“Don’t be too cocky.”)

Sakusa shields his face from the sun, closing in on himself with his arms folded over each other. “It’s too bright here.”

Osamu pulls the windows closed. Light seeps through from a crack in the blink of space between the blinds. “Better?”

“Thank you.” Sakusa sits on the wooden stool, head resting on his elbow that’s propped up on the table. He’s wiped an antibacterial wipe and set out a clean white cloth from his bag before doing so. A sleepy sigh falls from his lips. “Now, what’s on the menu for me?” he says, looking up at Osamu.

_For you,_ Osamu thinks. _If it were up to me, I would give you anything you wanted._ But Osamu doesn’t say that. Instead, he looks at him and says, “Just the usual for me. What do you want?” he says, already moving toward the kitchen.

Sakusa stretches out his arms. They feel almost numb with a familiar ache when he reaches for a cup to fill up with warm water. “Anything you can make is good enough for me. I’ve been told you’re a good cook. Don’t disappoint me.”

Osamu bites back a smile. “Ah. I know.” Slides over a pain relief rub from the top of the shelf where he keeps his old medical kit from high school. “You should stop tiring yourself out during practices. Don’t want ya to pass out before we can eat.” He moves over to slice Shiitake mushrooms.

“It’s your damn brother’s fault.” Already, Sakusa’s mood has turned sour. There’s a furrow in his brow as he bends his body, sliding the gel over his arm. “Kept tossing and tossing to us all afternoon ‘til Coach had to kick all of us out.” Rolls his eyes. “He just won’t give up on that new serve of his.”

“That’s so typical of him.” Osamu sighs. “Why do ya even like ‘im?” Shakes his head, almost pitifully, at Sakusa. “I don’t get what you see in him.” He continues to pour oyster sauce and honey in the skillet, stirring the mushrooms.

“I can’t help it.” Sakusa’s shoulders drop and there’s a look in his face, something melancholy, before he blinks it away. “Are you done yet? I can smell your cooking from here.”

Osamu sets the plate of slithery honey-bathed mushrooms in front of him. “Here. This is all I can give ya for now ‘cause I haven’t been able to buy groceries.” Then he slides over a dish full of _miso yaki onigiri._ “Try these ones out and tell me what ya think. It’s a new recipe I’m planning to release on the menu.” He might have lied about that. Maybe he had.

Sakusa scrutinizes the rice balls before putting one inside his mouth, taking a small, calculated bite. Chews, swallows, before speaking. “Tastes good. I think they would like it.”

“You’re eatin’ it like you’re afraid of it, Omi-omi.” There’s an irritating smile on Osamu’s face when he looks at Sakusa. 

Sakusa freezes up when he hears the familiar nickname. Tears his gaze away from the leftover half of the rice ball to glare at Osamu. “Don’t call me that name, Miya. I hate it.”

Osamu sighs. _This is gonna be a long day._ Looks at Sakusa and says, “Fine. Sorry ‘bout that. What can I call you, then?”

Sakusa looks at him, pale cheeks warming from how Osamu is looking— gazing at him. Over the course of a few weeks, Sakusa-san turns into just Sakusa, then turns into Kiyoomi.

*

Osamu runs into Sakusa many more times. He watches him twice as many times, observes how his movements always seem to carry an air of elegance around them. He watches his eyes flicker thrice as many times, observes how his eyes always seem to carry a shade of sadness inside them. He doesn’t ask if he’s okay, doesn’t offer him words of advice. Instead, he listens. He crouches into a sitting position beside him, back flat against the wall. Instead, he lets him speak.

Elegance slots its way into the rest of Sakusa’s features. He looks up at Osamu and immediately, the vulnerability wipes itself away from his face. He resumes peeling a Salonpas pain relief patch and sticking it unto his arm. “Miya,” he greets, “what are you doing here?” Then looks up at Osamu, teases him, “Have you perhaps come to see me play?”

Osamu raises a brow at him. “Hah. And I thought I’ve told ya to stop calling me Miya?” He smiles. “I kid, I kid, it’s alright if you don’t feel comfortable about it. And no, I wasn’t planning on watching the game. I just passed by on my way home.” 

Sakusa rolls his eyes at him. “Fine. Osamu, then.” Looks at Osamu, who’s sitting down beside him. “At least you came.”

“Congrats,” Osamu says. “And before you say anything, yes, I know you guys lost. Only been able to watch the last set or so but ‘Tsumu has been running his mouth off about the last point that I had to leave him alone.“ Shrugs, then says, “He’ll get over it in an hour or two. How are you then, Kiyoomi?” 

Sakusa blinks at him. Then he looks away, looking down at the linoleum floor stretching out beneath them. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, “it’s just a game to me, really.” _No, it isn’t. Winning means so much to you that you’re willing to get your hands dirty_ , Osamu thinks. _Winning means so much to you that you would slam your hand against the ball until you get it right._

But Osamu doesn’t bother arguing about the semantics with an ace spiker from the monster generation. He doesn’t need pity, he doesn’t _want_ it, and Osamu knows. “It’s alright to tell me how you really feel, ya know.” He smiles at him. “What’s up with you? Anything new in your life this past few days?”

Sakusa hums. “Nothing, really. Just committed arson.” The corners of his lips turn up into a smile, but the light does not reach his eyes. Osamu doesn’t know if he’s trying to joke about the situation, so he looks at him pitifully instead. “I’m kidding,” he says, looking at Osamu’s blank expression. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure you are.” Osamu prods into his bag, taking out a pink tupperware and hands it to Sakusa, but not before spraying the lid with some water-diluted alcohol. “I was going to give this to ‘Tsumu, but I guess you can ‘ave it. If you like.” 

_Hah._ That would be a lie. Osamu shrugs when Sakusa takes it without a second thought, trying to act nonchalant about it. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to poison me or something?” he says, turning the tupperware over. Squints at him. “You’re acting strange today, Osamu. What’s going on with you?”

“Me?” Osamu snorts. Bows his head to pull a tumbler from the side compartment. He drinks from it without letting his lips touch the top. “Nothing much, really. What about you?” He hands Sakusa the tumbler, still half full of warm water.

Sakusa blinks at him. Takes a half second before deciding to take it. “Thank you,” he says, “but don’t try to distract me. Tell me what’s wrong with you or I’m not going to let it go.”

Osamu says the first thing that pops into his mind. “I heard that your high-school libero’s dating Sunarin.” _Ah, fuck._ He’ll regret it, but not in the near future, so he says it anyway.

“Sunarin.” Sakusa pauses. “Ah. Suna Rintarou. I’ve always had a hunch that you liked him or something like that.” He looks at Osamu, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that, I guess.” Shrugs. Pats Osamu’s back awkwardly in an attempt to comfort him. Leaves his hand hovering an inch over his shirt. “It’s only a matter of time until you get over it. I hope.”

“Can you… can you help me get over it, then?” Osamu says. There’s something akin to hope bubbling in his words and he can feel the sharp sizzle in his veins. “You don’t have to do anything. I just need someone to be with me. Stay with me.”

Sakusa looks at him, and for a moment, Osamu feels his blood run cold under his skin. Wants to turn back time and take back the words. Braces himself for what is bound to come, feels his mouth run dry. But Sakusa says yes. 

*

In another one of Osamu’s recurring fever dreams where the only thing he can see, the only thing he wants to see amidst the hazy fog is Sakusa’s face, it goes something like this:

(Osamu is sitting on the floor with his hands flat on his lap. He’s downed a glass of sake but maybe it’s isn’t the liquid courage speaking for him. “Kiyoomi,” he asks, inching closer and closer over the table, “do you want to play pretend?”

Sakusa swallows down a bite of tsukemono. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, “but sure, I guess.”

“Good.” Osamu’s face splits into a grin, his cheeks flushed. “I want ya to pretend to be my boyfriend or somethin’ like that.”

“Why don’t you ask someone else?” Sakusa says, raising an eyebrow at him. “I mean, I’m sure there are others who are willing to be your fake boyfriend or whatever it is you want.”

“Nah, I don’t want anyone else,” Osamu says nonchalantly. “I want to be with someone that I’m already comfortable with.”

“Ah.” Sakusa looks at him. He’s so close that Osamu can almost feel him, so close that he wants to kiss him. “You can have me, Osamu. You can have me any way you want.”

Osamu kisses him quiet. Sakusa kisses him stupid.)

But dreams don’t always come true the way we want them to come alive. Instead, it flows a little bit more similar to this:

(Sakusa is leaning against the counter, back relaxed against black and gray marble. “Fuck buddies,” he muses. “I didn’t know a Miya could get this desperate to have someone.” A twinkle appears in his eye when he speaks. “Not exactly a good look on you, huh. Not a good look for your reputation.”

The tops of Osamu’s ears flush red. “That’s so crude,” he whines. “You can just call us friends, ya know, with benefits.”

“We aren’t exactly what you would call friends.” Sakusa taps his shoe against the floor, crossing his arms. “But I get what you mean. Friends, then, but with benefits. Let’s shake on it.”

“Okay.” Osamu bites down his pride. “Thank you, Kiyoomi.”)

And so, the dreamscape he has spent months constructing comes crashing down. There’s an incoming meteorite on the north coast. It all feels like a mess. It all feels disorganized. But is change always a bad thing? Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.

*

The first time they lie awake in bed together, Sakusa warns him, his breath hot and heavy against his skin. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says. He says his name like it could be a weapon. And adds, “You’re still a Miya, after all.” It still kind of stings, really, to be compared like that again. Like he hasn’t been actively trying to make a difference.

Still, Osamu smirks. “You say that like you’re not in bed with his brother.” He inches his hand closer and closer to the soft fabric stretching over Sakusa’s hips, fingers drawing closer and closer to his crotch. “Kiyoomi, don’tcha dare move.”

Sakusa holds a breath when Osamu touches him, his fingers ghosting over his briefs. “Fuck, just get it over with.” His hips buck up involuntarily, the lines of his pelvis searching for his touch. Hisses, when Osamu pulls away, “Just do it already.”

“Getting so worked up, huh?” Osamu wraps his hand around him, his torso pressed flush against Sakusa’s back. Hums as Sakusa grinds against him, “You’re so needy today, baby.” He lets himself sit between the muscles of Sakusa’s thighs.

Sakusa stutters out, “Fuck, Osamu.” He covers his mouth to muffle a moan, but Osamu takes his hand away. The sounds he is making right now are too sweet for him to miss. He lets Osamu snake an arm around his waist, their movements so fluid that their silhouettes almost blend into one another.

The way Sakusa touches him when they’re lying together is so raw, so tender that Osamu almost feels vulnerable. But when Osamu touches him back, his motions are so carefully constructed, almost like he’s trying not to scare him away. 

Osamu digs his chin into the curve of Sakusa’s neck, his hip bones digging into the back of his thighs. “Baby,” he says, “is this okay?” He stops when Sakusa doesn’t answer, waiting for at least a nod of consent, until he rolls his hips against him. He smiles and presses a kiss above his shoulder, letting his lips ghost over his warm skin. “You should use your words next time. Put that mouth of yours to good use.”

And so they slept together that night. And so maybe they do it again, two weeks later, until it becomes an every other day thing. And so Osamu still doesn’t know where he stands with Sakusa. Maybe it doesn’t matter to him. Or maybe it does.

*

When Osamu wakes up that morning, he finds the right side of the bed to be empty. “Ah,” he says to himself, “Kiyoomi probably gets up early on the weekends.” Looks at his side table and finds a post-it note with something written in italic.

“I left early,” it reads, “because I still have errands to run. Let me know if you want to go through with the proposition. Call or text me on this number.” Osamu doesn’t adhere to a set of rules, doesn’t care to pay attention to things that would stop him from chasing the things he wants. So he calls him.

Sakusa sets the rules and it’s Osamu who says yes to them. After all, he’s done nothing but agree to what he wants, cater to his liking, bend his body backward to serve him. Maybe it was normal for him to do that. Maybe he just had something about him that made Osamu want to go to odds for. Maybe there was just something about the inside of Sakusa’s mouth that made Osamu roll his eyes back in their sockets and say things he doesn’t mean. Although, really, who could say no?

“Kiyoomi,” Osamu says, “where are you right now?”

Sakusa picks up after a few seconds of letting the dial tone hum. “I’m at the grocery store,” he says, his voice hushed over the background noise. “I told you I’d be running errands today.” Sighs, then whispers, “Well, what do you think?”

Osamu disregards the doubts and says yes. Of course he says yes. He’s always wanted to bleed into Sakusa like this, always wanted to hold him in his arms like he could be his. A small flame sparks in his chest at the suggestion and he lets Sakusa light it up, burning embers into a forest fire into ash.

*

Lying with Sakusa in his king-sized bed where the sheets are spotless, immaculate and the sheets are never rumpled feels somewhat indulgent, at this point. He has never slept with someone else and felt his chest turning this warm, his heart swelling under his sternum. Only Sakusa. Osamu runs his hand over the course of his hair and tucks a stray strand behind his ear. He has never slept with someone else and felt this loved, this _tender_. He can only hope that Sakusa feels the same warmth he does when he lies with him too.

Sakusa arches his back when he straddles him, letting his left leg lie flat against the bed, indenting the mattress with his knee, heavy against thick foam. “Osamu.” He calls out his name like they aren’t acquainted enough, as though they hadn’t spent months getting to know each other between these sheets, as though they hadn’t run their hands over each other’s bodies, memorizing the limits of each other’s wavelength and wingspans. Perimeters into intimate warmth.

“Have you ever been touched like this, Osamu?” There’s a bout of curiosity in Sakusa’s tone. Fond, almost. He drags a slow line down Osamu’s sides with his fingers. His touch, his finger feels so light against Osamu’s warm skin that he can feel his head spin. “Am I the first one to touch you like this?”

_I have been held before, sure, but there’s nobody like you._ “I guess. But s’not the same, Kiyoomi,” Osamu muses, holding Sakusa’s hips closer. “S’ not the same when you touch me.”

Sakusa’s ears ached with the comparison. _Ah._ It feels almost wonderful when Osamu holds him like this. It feels less sinful than it should have been. Intoxicated with the cautious sin of pleasure, he wraps his hand around Osamu’s neck. He lets it rest on his throat, his cold hand against the streak of sweat.

He dangles his hand over his Adam’s apple, like it’s a bone lodged between the edgeways of his throat. “Baby,” Osamu says. Chokes out, really. “Fuck. Stop touching me like that.”

There’s a dull ache blooming where Sakusa touched him, a growing circle of fire clinging to his neck. Osamu can feel his throat opening up to accommodate this new warmth. “Stop, then,” Sakusa breathes out. “Stop calling me that, Osamu.” 

Osamu lets his hands linger along the sides of his torso as a response and once he feels Sakusa flinch, he asks, “Why?” 

_Why, Kiyoomi. Why now? What are you so afraid of?_

Sakusa closes him off before he can even tell him. “Don’t let yourself get too close to me. We’re partners for a reason.”

*

Osamu raps a spoon over the shell of the egg to crack it. Hard-boiled, just the way Sakusa likes it. Sunny side ups are too slimy, poached eggs too runny. “Have an egg,” he says, fingers already peeling it for Sakusa, shell shards swept up by a careful hand before slicing it. “Makes soba taste better.”

“Okay.” Sakusa doesn’t let Osamu see, but the edges of his lips quirk up under his mask before he pulls it down to take a bite of the buckwheat noodles. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

Osamu sets down a glass of water for Sakusa and says apologetically, “Ah, I only have one cup here.” He catches the short calculating glance that Sakusa shoots over at him. Smiles softly, gently, and says, “Don’t worry about germs or somethin’ like that. I’ve sanitized it well for your pleasure.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Sakusa scoffs at him. Still, he wipes his finger over the rim of the glass, the movement quick and fluid like something he has drawn from memory.

Osamu sits in front of Sakusa, folding his hands over the table mat he set out. “Come on,” he coaxes, “take a bite already. I want to know what you think ‘bout my cooking.” 

Sakusa looks at him. “Don’t you think it’s a little awkward if you’re just going to watch me eat?” He crosses his legs as he sits, a gesture so delicate and so typical for him to do.

“Nah.” Osamu props his head up on his elbow, looking at Sakusa as he twirls the noodles with his fork. “I’m good.” 

Osamu could stay like this for hours— watching as Sakusa performs the little rituals he does before taking a bite. He can do this all day— observing Sakusa have the smallest pleased smile on the corners of his lips at the taste of soba. It feels nostalgic, almost. Warm, mellow. Tender, maybe.

Maybe Osamu is seeking solace in the wrong places. But maybe there’s something that just can’t help but pull him in. Still, he lets it reside inside his chest, settle like a weight on his heart, growing heavier and heavier every time he tries to lift it. Satisfaction feels like a landmark, at this point. Maybe he’s on his way. Maybe he’s already passed by it a day ago.

Still, there’s that sharp feeling of victory resurfacing over the bumps of his skin, like when he got his new shoes or when he got higher grades than Atsumu for the first time or maybe that time when he won his first competition without his twin. Still, there’s that supersaturated sense of accomplishment flashing before his eyes and it’s never diluted, he’s never tried to quell it. It’s concentrated out of his palm, it’s intense as ever. It’s _raw,_ flashing blue-orange spots out of his eyes.

_Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi._ It’s all he’s ever thought about. _Kiyoomi._ He wants him, wants to hold him so bad that he doesn’t have any clue what to do with himself this time around.

*

Sakusa invites Osamu over to his apartment. Maybe it went well enough. Maybe it went too well for either of their liking.

“Want to smoke?” Osamu says, digging into his pocket for his pack. “I’ve still got some sticks here if you want one.”

Sakusa waves his hand at him. “No, I’m good. I can’t ruin my lungs yet. Gonna stay away from smoking until I retire from volleyball or something.” He looks at Osamu who’s already flicking his lighter open. “I didn’t know you smoke though.”

Osamu laughs, blowing the smoke around their faces, letting it curl around the air. “Kiyoomi, you and I both know exactly why there’s still a lot that we don’t know about each other.” 

“There’s still a lot of time,” Sakusa says. “No need to rush.”

Osamu drags a slow line of cigarette smoke between his lips to appease his nerves. Calm down the red swell of his chest. He looks at Sakusa and watches the lush curls of his lashes, observes the soft pink groove of his lips, takes note of the twinkle in his eyes when he watches him twirl in his grasp. 

He presses his palm against the back of Sakusa’s neck and kisses him, burrowing himself deeper into his holy warmth, feeling his own head come apart at the seams, unlatching itself. His head feels light, almost like he’s drunk on his touch, and still too heavy when he looks at him for too long.

Sakusa pulls away first, feeling his mouth stinging from the kiss. “What the _fuck,_ Miya. Don’t kiss me so suddenly.” Sighs before saying, “At least give me a warning before you do it.”

“Kiyoomi,” Osamu says, the words dangling off his lips, “you look really fuckin’ pretty tonight.” The words swirl around in his mouth, swimming like caramel candy. _God, I want you._

“Don’t say that,” Sakusa says. Pulls down his mask under his chin to speak.’“Stop saying things that you don’t mean.”

Osamu tucks a stray hair behind Sakusa’s ear. His hand is warm against his skin. “But I mean it. I really do. Don’tcha believe me?” Laughs. “The lack of trust you have in me.” He exhales, blowing smoke until it’s all tangled up in their hair.

Sakusa looks at him, his forehead wrinkling into a grimace, as if he is witnessing something extremely unpleasant. His nose wrinkles but Osamu notices the way his hands aren’t rushing to pull the loops of his mask back on his ears. There is a pout plastered across his pretty pink mouth and his eyes are watering from the smoke. Osamu can’t help but think about how bad he wants to kiss him again, see the frown on his face disappear. “I didn’t say anything about trust, Miya. Stop twisting my words.” Osamu can’t help but look at him.

Osamu rolls his head back into a soft laugh. It seems almost unnatural, almost uncanny coming from him. “Kiyoomi, just say thank you.” _Just say you’re grateful to me._ “Stop making it so hard for us.” _How difficult it is to talk to you like this._

Sakusa sighs. “I’m not going to say thank you.” He is a little too prideful to say it, not desperate enough to beg for an ounce of Osamu’s affection like many other boys. And sure enough, he doesn’t. Instead, he moves toward him, his body moving faster than his mind can function, his lips leaving soft glossed-over kisses over the course of Osamu’s sharp jaw.

*

Neither of them move. No one makes a sound, except for the neon orange electric fan whirring its blades, spinning into air behind them. Besides that, darkness. Osamu switches off the lamp, covering Kiyoomi’s face in half shadow and half orange shades. In this light, Kiyoomi looks beautiful. He looks closer to ethereal than he has ever been before.

“Kiyoomi.” Osamu’s voice is desperate when he says his name. Nothing like Sakusa has ever heard before. Nothing that Sakusa has never heard before. His breath shakes when the other boy looks, finally looks at him. “Let me in.”

Sakusa looks at him and he feels his stomach bursting into flames. “Let you in?” he says. “Let you in where?” He blinks at Osamu and in this light, covering him in partial shadow, with his black bangs hanging over his face, he looks almost innocent. He looks almost like he’s incapable of ruin.

“You,” Osamu says. Leans closer, the fabric of his old jersey shorts brushing against Sakusa’s knee. Neither of them flinch at the close contact, like it’s already something the both of them have memorized. “I don’t know shit about you.”

“You don’t need to know anything about me that you don’t already know.” Sakusa leans in. Skin brushing against skin.

“Why?” Osamu asks. It’s all he’s ever done. Asked him, waited for answers he knows Sakusa can’t give. _Tell me._

“We’re in this thing for a reason,” Sakusa says, but he feels weak, helpless. “It was supposed to be a one time thing.” He can feel Osamu’s hand climbing further and further down the hollow of his hips, long fingers brushing against bone. Feels his own back arch at his touch. His words come out flat when he breathes them out. “What are you doing, Osamu?” 

“Touchin’ you?” _I want to hold you, Kiyoomi._ _What would it be like to hold you?_ Osamu plucks a stray hair from the edge of Sakusa’s thigh, the feeling of his hand lingering on his skin. Feels him tremble at his touch. “What else am I doing?”

_What do you want me to do to you, Kiyoomi?_ Sakusa tries to swat his hand away. “That’s not what I mean.” Sighs, drags a long heavy one. “I mean this. All this.” Frustration seats like heavy velvet beneath his words. “We’re lying together and you’re trying to talk to me but we aren’t even friends.”

“That’s because you won’t let me come close.” Sakusa feels the brush of a gold ring against the wall of muscle over his thigh. Osamu looks at him, head leaning to the other side. “I don’t understand, Kiyoomi. What do you want me to do?”

Sakusa takes his latex glove off before he touches him. His shaking hand rests the glove, only one glove, on the side table. He always holds him like he’s made of rough edges.

Sakusa presses a gentle hand against the swell of Osamu’s cheek. Hovers over the static of his skin, like he’s afraid of touching him. Holds him gently, so gently he almost doesn’t feel it. Like he’s afraid of pressing too hard. Like there’s a small fire burning on the inside of Osamu’s mouth. “‘Samu,” he says quietly, “I thought we already had an agreement.”

“Rules are meant to be broken, aren’t they?” Osamu says. He feels helpless this way. Trapped in his own desire. It swirls in his stomach. Rises up his throat. _Tell me they are._

Osamu feels Sakusa’s tugging gaze grow steady on his face, like he’s zooming in on his features. Like he’s trying to capture him in one frame. Sakusa’s restless hand feels hot against his skin. Electric, almost. “Answer me, Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa looks at him, and this time, there’s nothing kind about his gaze. Osamu can feel the skin of his cheek melting like he’s bitten into it. He looks at him. Says, “Not like this. We had a rule. You told me the first time that you can do it.” 

“Well, maybe I lied.” Osamu leans in. Lets his lips sweep over Sakusa’s. It’s barely a kiss, barely the kiss he wants. But Sakusa kisses him back, and that’s more than enough.

*

There it is again, the flush of warm water running against his skin whenever Sakusa touches him. He feels hot, so hot like he’s gotten a fever. There it is again, the soft hum of victory whenever he touches him, like he has just won a game he’s been going at for hours. Like he can’t help but smile, like he can’t help but want to close the distance between them. Like how in the dark where nobody can see them, there’s a slow dance of bodies slotting together like pieces of a puzzle.

Sakusa looks at him. His eyes are black, sharp against his skin. His gaze moves toward the convex muscle of Osamu’s thighs, traces a smooth steady line with his finger over the warmth of his body. He whispers, barely audible over the sounds the television is making in the background, “Is this okay?” The reporter’s voice is fading away from their ears.

_It’s okay, as long as it’s you doing it to me._ “It’s fine,” Osamu says, breath hitching from Sakusa’s touch. _Only if it’s you._

It feels almost impious when Sakusa touches him like this. Wanton, needy. His calculated motions turn into dark warmth framing the angles of Osamu’s body like a portrait, pale light shining on him. Sakusa cards his fingers through his hair, pulling him in close then grazing his teeth against his neck. “Does this feel good? Am I making you feel good?” It feels almost sacred how he’s asking Osamu how he feels about it.

_It feels so good that I want to feel you doing it to me all day._ “Kiyoomi.” Osamu calls out his name like it’s something that feels so delicate, so holy on his tongue. He throws his head back when he feels Sakusa’s lips kissing the soft skin of his neck. “Why are we doing this? Why did you want to do this?” 

For a split second, Osamu hopes Sakusa would tell him he likes him, even just a little bit. Tell him even anything at all. “Osamu,” Sakusa breathes out, “if I told you that I knew why we decided to have this arrangement, then I would be lying.”

“Lie to me, then.” Osamu wraps his hand around the back of Sakusa’s neck. His fingers feel charred after touching him like this. “Can’t you tell me, even once, that you love me?”

“I can’t,” Sakusa says. Osamu feels his heart break under the fabric of his threadbare shirt. “I can’t lie to you like that.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me,” Osamu says. “I just need you to pretend.” _Pretend that you love me, Kiyoomi. Pretend, just once, that you want me the way I want you._

“I just don’t want things to change,” Sakusa says, letting his hand run through the dark of Osamu’s hair, pressing kisses all over the sharp lines of his abdomen. “I don’t want you to change. It would just make things harder for the both of us.”

“They won’t.” Osamu looks at him. “Is it really that hard for you to do?” _Is it hard to look at me the way I look at you?_

“They will, Osamu. Believe me, they will.” Sakusa says, his breath sharp against Osamu’s skin, his lips crawling further down. “Between us. Between you and Atsumu. You’re still his brother.” Stumbles on the words, before letting himself say, “Things might change between me and Atsumu too.”

“Nothing has to change,” Osamu says, unfurling his fingers to rest his hand on the top of Sakusa’s head, watching as he bows lower to accommodate him. “Don’t you trust me?”

“This has nothing to do with trust.” Sakusa flutters his eyes closed, wrapping his lips around him and in this moment, he looks so beautiful that Osamu wants to reach out to touch him. There is something magnetic about the way he moves, something sacrilegious about the way he touches Osamu.

Osamu knows he doesn’t want to answer. He knows too well that maybe, even after the span of a few months, perhaps even more, Sakusa still wouldn’t know what to tell him. So he lets him stay quiet. He lets him wrap his lips around him. Lets him sway his body to follow him again. He lets him have his way with him for the night, as long as he has him for now.

_Kiyoomi._ It’s all he has ever thought about. Kiyoomi and his mouth leaving his name over the skin of his shoulder blade. Kiyoomi and his eyes never leaving his face when he goes down on him. Kiyoomi. It’s all Kiyoomi in this world of his.

*

Osamu watches Sakusa’s game the next day, blending into the crowd where they’re all dressed in black and gold. Looks over to their side of the court, where Sakusa’s warming up with Hinata helping him stretch his legs out. He watches the curve of his calves, observes his rigid posture, takes note of his straight spine. He wonders what else he hasn’t noticed about Sakusa. He wonders how little he hasn’t memorized.

Osamu watches the steady pull of eyes into Sakusa’s form. Already, he realizes how Sakusa’s looking at him back. His black eyes are trained on him and he feels his hands going steady, then unsteady. Then his gaze steers to the side. He wonders if any of these other people are watching Sakusa the way he is watching him. He wonders if any of these other people know him like he knows him and for a split second he can’t help but feel almost _envious_ of them for being able _not_ to see him everyday because he hasn’t been able to think of much else other than him. It’s always him and his cocksure smiles and his pretty black eyes always trained on Osamu.

Osamu watches Sakusa receive the ball. He listens to the sharp sound it makes when it ricochets from his palm to the gymnasium floor and suddenly, all eyes are on him. Many more other eyes are looking at Sakusa, even if it’s just for a millionth of a second used to flash their glance upon him, and Osamu feels envious, envious of how people are looking at him. He kind of wants to tear their gazes away.

The whistle rings inside their ears. His ears ache, really. Osamu can feel his head throb when he holds a hand to it.

Osamu looks at Sakusa. Looks, because there has always been a gravitational force surrounding him, drawing him in. Looks, because he has gotten so used to it he can’t stop himself. Looks at him, because it is all he has known to do.

*

It’s three in the morning and Osamu is half drunk when he climbs the stairs up Sakusa’s apartment, inviting himself in and wiping his shoes on the welcome mat. Sakusa’s wearing his purple satin pajamas and a black velvet sleep mask. The lamp is the only thing shining and in this pale light, he looks beautiful. Osamu wants to kiss him stupid. And so he does.

Sakusa startles when Osamu kisses him. Holds his breath until he pulls away. “What are you doing this for?” he asks. Unlatches himself from Osamu’s grip. Twist away from him.

“Why do you keep pulling away, Kiyoomi?” Osamu’s breath hitches when he speaks. His mouth turns wary when placed under Sakusa’s calculating gaze. _God, Kiyoomi. Why have you made me so stupid?_ “I thought you wanted it, all of this.”

“I didn’t want this.” Sakusa’s voice turns small when he says the words, the magnitude shaking the ground beneath them. His hands shake when Osamu holds him. “I didn’t want any of this to happen.” _I want you, Kiyoomi. Can’t you tell?_

Osamu’s expression softens. “Kiyoomi,” he says, “have you ever considered what I wanted?” _What I wanted. For me. For us. Have you ever thought about what I felt about this?_

*

It’s five in the morning and Osamu’s state of insobriety has worn off a little at this point. He can feel it fading away from his senses, slowly, surely, when Sakusa touches him, holds him in his arms. The sounds they make hide themselves in the walls. Osamu is dressed in little else but his blue boxers.

“Kiyoomi,” Osamu pants, “stop touchin’ me like that.” Still, he presses down on the top of Sakusa’s head, fingers curling around his curls, for him so he can go lower, even lower.

“Touch you like what?” Sakusa tugs on the waistband of Osamu’s boxers. He lets his hand graze on it. “Like this?”

“Not like that,” Osamu says, breathless. _Kiyoomi, I don’t know if I want this anymore._ “Like you fuckin’ love me.”

“But I do, ‘Samu.” Sakusa rests his cheek on the warmth, face hovering on it like a phantom weight. Looks up, meeting his blown-out eyes. “I need you.” _Then show me._ “Can’t you tell?” _Tell me, Kiyoomi. Tell me._ “Can’t you see?” _Make me._

“No, you don’t.” Osamu feels a knot in his stomach when he speaks. “You love the way I make you feel, don’tcha?” Sweat drops down his bare chest with every movement he makes

“How many times, Osamu?” Kiyoomi’s eyes flutter open, his lips, so soft and pink, wrapped around him. And _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._ “How many more times do I have to tell you?”

*

Osamu serves him a plate of pork cutlets. Wordlessly. But he looks at him, quietly, intently. Like he’s trying to delve inside him, like he’s trying to figure him out. Like he’s trying to see.

Sakusa’s the one to break the silence stretching between them. “Osamu,” Sakusa says, “what’s going on with you?” 

_Can’t you tell?_ Osamu reaches over for the saucer. Slices a calamansi and squeezes it. “Here.” _Can’t you see?_ Pours a trickle of soy sauce. Only a trickle, never going over.

Sakusa looks at Osamu. It’s the first time Sakusa has looked at Osamu like this, like he’s trying to understand him. Osamu doesn’t look back at him. He stops trying. Instead, he opens his mouth to say the words he has always wanted to tell him.

*

“Why are you acting like this, Osamu?” Sakusa’s lip quivers when he speaks. “Why are you saying all these things like— like you think you know me better than anyone else I know?”

“Because I love you, dumbass.” Osamu kisses him without a moment of hesitation. Touches Sakusa, wants him, holds him. Loves Sakusa, because it’s all he’s ever known to do.

*

Sakusa props his elbow up on the edge of the sofa, his head resting on his hand. He watches the curve of Osamu’s bicep, curling even when he’s just lounging around the house. Calls out, “You better clean up all the mess you’ve made.” Shakes his head at the wrinkled black clothes strewn over the floor.

Osamu looks at him and pats the space next to him on the sofa. He’s wearing a threadbare sleeveless shirt and paling gray sweatpants, an old pair of Atsumu’s. He’s tapping the sole of a dark brown leather Jesus slipper against the floor. Gestures for Sakusa to come closer to him. “Come here, baby.” Sakusa traces his gaze over the concave curve of a sun browned thigh. 

“I love you,” Osamu whispers against the shell of his ear. It’s intimate. It’s tender. Warm, mellow. _I love you, Kiyoomi. I’ve always had._ It’s all he has ever wanted to tell him.

“Stupid,” Sakusa says, “I love you too.” He presses his lips against Osamu’s. It’s soft, gentle. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

Sakusa kisses Osamu like he hasn’t eaten for a year, letting him taste his warmth. Osamu kisses him back, burrowing in his mouth like he has been looking for his taste all this time.

Maybe love manifests in strange moments like these. Maybe there is love in the little things, maybe there is love in grand gestures. Maybe there is love in the act of consumption. So Osamu lets Sakusa devour him, lets him consume him. So Osamu lets Sakusa swipe a wary mouth over his warm skin. Maybe this is love. Maybe it isn’t. Who knows. Who cares.

As long as they’re happy. As long as they’re satisfied.


End file.
